Budapest police headquarters, Teve Street, 11.00 a.m.
Sandor Takacs looked down at a freshly printed police report sitting on top of several manila folders. ‘Code one?’ he demanded. ‘Officer in danger?’
‘I was in danger,’ said Balthazar. ‘I was surrounded by six armed hostiles.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ Takacs said, exasperated. ‘What were you doing there, anyway?’
‘Investigating a murder.’
‘No, you were not. You investigate murders here, under my command. You go where I send you. I did not send you to Republic Square, or whatever it’s called nowadays.’ Takacs put the report aside and pushed the folders across the desk. ‘Do these look familiar, Detective?’
Balthazar picked the top file off the heap. ‘Ildiko Nagy’ was written on a white stick-on label. A photograph of a chubby teenage girl with frizzy brown hair was pinned to the cardboard. He checked the next in the pile. Marton Kelemen, a bald man in his late fifties, stared gloomily out.
Balthazar said, ‘Yes. Why aren’t they on my desk?’
‘Because you never seem to be. I’m thinking of transferring you back to the beat. In District XXII.’
District XXII lay on the far edge of the city, a slice of quiet, immensely dull suburbia. Takacs continued, ‘You can track down stolen bicycles. Arrest shoplifters. There might even be a burglary once a month.’
Takacs’s annoyance was real, but would dissipate, Balthazar knew. Even so, form demanded that he show adequate obeisance. He bowed his head slightly. ‘Please don’t do that, boss.’ He rested his hand on the folders. ‘I am on these. Promise.’
Takacs looked doubtful. ‘Really? Remind me, please, how many cases you are working on?’
Balthazar mentally counted for several seconds. ‘Six.’
‘And how many have we temporarily put on hold, due to lack of leads, witnesses and material resources?’
‘About as many.’
‘So that’s twelve actual dead people that need you to find their killer.’
Balthazar reached into his pocket, took out his iPhone, called up the photograph he had been sent and passed the handset to Takacs. ‘Thirteen.’
Takacs glanced at the screen. ‘Twelve.’
‘There was a dead man on Republic Square this morning. It’s our job to find his killer.’
‘Not this one.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Tazi.’
‘Nothing? Really?’
Takacs exhaled loudly, cutting him off. ‘But... Attila Ungar.’
‘Oh. The Gendarmes are on it.’ Balthazar paused for a moment. ‘So there is a case?’
Takacs put Balthazar’s iPhone down and reached for the packet of cigarettes by his papers. They were Sobranie, the cheapest, roughest brand. He took a cigarette and held the end to his nose, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and exhaled. Takacs had once been a forty-a-day man. ‘Not here, in this building. And certainly not for you.’
Balthazar watched the shreds of tobacco fall on Takacs’s papers. ‘And we just let them do that?’
‘So I am informed.’
‘Why?’
‘Csak,’ said Takacs, brushing the brown flakes away. Csak, pronounced ‘chuck’, literally meant ‘only’, but used like this, it meant ‘because I say so and that’s the end of the matter’, as a parent might inform a troublesome child. He stubbed the unlit cigarette in an large glass ashtray, adding it to an ash-free pile of crushed filters, paper tubes and chunks of tobacco.
The commander of Budapest police’s murder squad was short and tubby. Two small brown eyes looked out from a round, pudgy face, under thinning grey hair, carefully combed over a bald spot at the back of Takacs’s head. His face was shiny with sweat and his white shirt was already damp under the armpits. It was a sign of Takacs’s displeasure that he was sitting behind his desk in his office on the tenth floor, while his subordinate was perched on a chair in front. They usually talked in the corner, where two armchairs nestled against a small coffee table.
As the commander of the Budapest murder squad, Takacs merited a corner office with large windows. The decor and furniture was standard government issue: light-blue walls, fake parquet floor and an Ikea adjustable office chair. But the view was spectacular: on one side, Arpad Bridge, a six-lane concrete ribbon with a tram track in the middle, spanned the Danube at the tip of Margaret Island; on the other, the green hills of Buda, studded with white villas, stretched away into the distance. Today the picture windows were not a bonus. The Budapest police headquarters were housed in a modern steel-and-glass tower block. The sunlight poured through and the room was steadily warming, had been all morning. The building’s air-conditioning, overloaded by the kanikula, the summer heat wave, had finally given up. An upright fan in the corner turned from side to side, bringing little relief.
The thick heat of summer was not unusual for early September. What was unusual, Balthazar noticed, was Takacs’s desk. The perennially teetering piles of reports, memos, files and torn-out newspaper articles had been replaced by an in tray and an out tray, both of which were near empty. Next to them stood a small, orderly pile of papers. What was going on here?
Takacs glanced at that day’s edition of Magyar Vilag, which he made sure to always display. Terrorist Threat from Keleti Migrants’ proclaimed the front-page lead, above a picture of a column of weary-looking male refugees trudging under a border-post sign proclaiming ‘Magyar Koztarsasag, Republic of Hungary’. The second story announced ‘Prime Minister Welcomes Gulf Investors’.
He frowned, pushed the newspaper away. He thought for a moment. ‘And actually, what do we have here? A photograph that may be of a dead man, and may not, a text message on your phone and some nasty graffiti. Who sent the message to your phone? Maybe it’s your friends at Hazifiu.hu, stirring things up again. Forget about the Gendarmes. Focus on your existing workload. On actual real dead people.’
Balthazar often appeared on television news and chat shows, wheeled out by the police’s press office as proof of the force’s commitment to social inclusion. That made him a favourite target of Hazifiu.hu, the most extreme of Hungary’s far-right websites. Hazifiu translated as ‘patriotboy’. Last month the news portal had published his photograph, email address and mobile telephone number, prompting a deluge of hate messages and threats. Balthazar’s home address, the website promised, would be next. The following day at dawn, the police had raided the website’s office and the editor’s home. Balthazar had not been featured since. Most of the threats were harmless, from the angry, embittered and unemployable who had been left behind by the change of system. But perhaps not all of them. Balthazar had enlisted the help of a friend in the State Security Service, a former hacker turned security expert. He had traced several of the emails’ IP addresses back to servers in Parliament.
Balthazar thought for a moment. ‘Maybe. But then they would run the photo of the dead man on the website to celebrate. The message came from a blocked number. I asked the mobile network. They said it would take up to a week to find out and then they’d need authorisation from the prime minister’s office to release confidential information. Those are the new regulations, apparently.’
Takacs laughed. ‘They need authorisation from the PM’s office to take a piss in the morning. Like everyone else now.’
Balthazar leaned forward. ‘Look at the video again, please, boss. There are track-marks in the dirt. As far apart as a pair of feet.’
Takacs picked up the handset and pressed the play button. ‘That’s not enough. A murder case needs a body. We don’t have one.’
‘Look at the graffiti, under the tree with the hanged man.’
Takacs swiped right, and enlarged the photograph, spelling out the letters painted underneath. MNF.
‘Circumstantial. Could mean anything.’ He shook his head and handed the telephone back to Balthazar. ‘Were there any witnesses?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘A kid. He said he saw some men take the body away in a white van.’
‘What men?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Type, make of van?’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘That’s it. He was about to tell me more when the Gendarmes turned up. He scarpered as soon as they arrived.’
‘Smart kid. His name?’
‘Jozsi. A Gypsy.’
‘Family name?’
‘I didn’t get it.’
Takacs sat back, splayed his fingers in a pyramid. ‘So all we have, apart from your telephone message, is Jozsika, little Jozsi, somewhere in the backstreets of District VIII who says he saw some men take a body away. Well, that narrows the field.’ He flushed and looked at Balthazar. Jozsi, short for Jozsef, was a very common Gypsy name. ‘Ah. Er... Sorry, Tazi... I...’ he muttered, a flush rising up his neck.
Balthazar laughed, ‘Forget it, boss.’ His voice turned serious. ‘Actually, we do have something.’
‘What?’
Balthazar reached inside his trouser pocket, took out the evidence bag with the SIM card inside and handed it to Takacs. ‘This.’
As if on cue, just as Takacs peered at the evidence bag, a knock on the door sounded. Balthazar watched Takacs’s reaction with amazement. Not only had his boss turned into a neat-freak, he was also a speed neat-freak. Takacs did not answer. Instead he gathered the files and papers into a single pile, turned the code one report over, so a blank page was showing, placed all the paper in the in tray and dropped the newspaper on top. Balthazar watched Takacs’s stubby fingers flow quickly and easily over his keyboard as he shut down his email and browser and called up a screensaver. For a man of his generation, his boss was surprisingly adept with computers and electronic communications. Only then did Takacs say, ‘Come in.’
Balthazar turned to see a stout blonde woman in her late forties step inside. She carried a tray with two coffees, two bottles of mineral water and a plate of chocolate biscuits towards Takacs’s desk. Balthazar glanced at Takacs. The evidence bag was still on Takacs’s desk. Takacs had not noticed it. Balthazar understood instinctively that whoever this woman was, she should not see it. He stared at Takacs, who looked puzzled, down at the bag, back at Takacs, pulled a face to indicate urgency, then stood up to block the woman’s view of his boss’s desk and her path towards it.
Balthazar introduced himself. The woman wore a tight blue polyester two-piece business suit with garish gold-coloured buttons on the jacket and a knee-length skirt. She looked puzzled and faintly irritated – Why this person introducing himself now and blocking her ? – but replied as custom demanded. ‘Szilagyi Ilona,’ she said, turning reluctantly to face him. She had brown eyes, heavy mascara and dyed blonde hair teased into an elaborate bouffant. She looked down at the tray as if to indicate she could not shake hands now.
Balthazar sensed movement at the side of his field of vision. He stood aside as Ilona stopped at the edge of Takacs’s desk and greeted him as she put the drinks down.
Balthazar followed her eyes’ sweep down Takacs’s worktop. She stared at Takacs’s computer monitor, frowning for a moment when she saw a bouncing screensaver of the Hungarian Parliament. The evidence bag was gone.
‘Please excuse Detective Kovacs,’ said Takacs. ‘He is one of my best officers. When he obeys orders.’
Ilona smiled uncertainly, looked back and forth between the two men, puzzlement written on her face as she tried to work out their relationship. Was Takacs being funny? How could somebody defy their boss? She asked, ‘Shall I add the milk and sugar?’
‘That’s very kind, Ilona,’ said Takacs, ‘but no thanks.’ He stopped talking, let the silence build. Ilona made no move to leave, her eyes sweeping across Takacs’s worktop for the second time.
‘Thank you, Ilona,’ said Takacs, with more emphasis. She hesitated for a moment as her smile faded, then left the room.
Balthazar waited until she had closed the door. ‘Ilona?’
‘Yes. Ilona,’ said Takacs, sighing before he added three heaped spoons of sugar to his coffee and a splash of milk. ‘Shall I be mother? Or I can call Ilona...’
Balthazar picked up his drink. ‘No need. Black is fine. Why didn’t you just switch it off when you heard her knock?’
‘That would be a little obvious, don’t you think?’
‘Probably. Where’s Erzsi?’ Erzsi , Auntie Erzsi, had worked for Takacs for almost twenty years. Both men trusted her absolutely.
Takacs gestured at the tray. ‘I didn’t ask for this and I didn’t ask for Ilona. Yesterday, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Erzsi was offered voluntary redundancy: six months’ salary, plus a full-salary pension for life. One that would not count towards her personal tax allowance if she took another job. She had two hours to decide. She didn’t want to leave.’ He picked up his coffee, tasted the drink and grimaced. ‘There were a lot of tears. I told her to take it. She did. We’ll have a dinner for her in two weeks at Gundel.’ Gundel was Budapest’s most famous historic restaurant. Takacs continued talking, ‘You will be there, of course. Ilona won’t. She arrived today, at nine a.m. With a key to my office. Luckily, I had a tip-off that she was coming. I was here first.’
‘A tip-off from who?’
Takacs smiled. ‘A friend.’
‘A friend in high places?’
‘High enough.’
‘And who sent Ilona?’
Takacs put the cup down. ‘The same branch of government that offered Erzsi her retirement package. Ilona has been seconded from the prime minister’s office. There is a new programme for long-serving state employees; it’s called loyalty rewards. Like an airline. They get moved around different departments to broaden their work skills. Apparently, working for me is a reward.’
Balthazar laughed. ‘I’ve always thought so, boss.’
Takacs inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you agree. I could have said no, of course. But the virtue of Ilona, as you saw, is that she is not the subtlest operator. If I said no, then they would have sent someone else.’
Balthazar looked out of the window. A cruise ship passed under Arpad Bridge’s concrete arches, a black-and-gold German flag fluttering at its prow. The boats started in Germany, wound through Austria and Hungary before heading south into Serbia and Romania and the Black Sea. The ship was long and white, three stories tall, and every cabin had huge picture windows. He could see the staff putting out lunch on the upper deck. Balthazar’s stomach growled. He had eaten nothing that day apart from a banana, had drunk too much coffee and not enough water.
Balthazar asked, ‘How do you know they didn’t?’
Takacs frowned. ‘Didn’t what?’
‘Send someone else as well? Maybe she’s a diversion. Distracting you from the real spy.’
Takacs looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe she is a diversion. And maybe you overestimate our prime minister.’ He took the newspaper off the case files and tapped the pile. ‘Meanwhile, you have plenty to do without worrying about Ilona. Or getting into turf wars with the Gendarmerie.’
Balthazar picked up the files and leafed through them. Ildiko Nagy, a seventeen-year-old school student, had been stabbed by her former boyfriend in The Dubliner, an imitation Irish pub near Nyugati Station. Marton Kelemen had been hit over the head with a bottle by his wife in their luxurious Buda villa after she found sexual texts from his secretary. The Dubliner had CCTV, and the cameras actually worked. The boyfriend was still using his Facebook account. A neighbour had heard Kelemen screaming at her husband, threatening to kill him, followed by the sound of broken glass. Mrs Kelemen was on the run. She had dumped her telephone but seemed to be using her own bank card. Balthazar knew he should be able to find both suspects in a day or two.
Takacs picked up a crumpled handkerchief, wiped his sweaty forehead. ‘I never liked Ungar. He is a thug. Every time I tried to bring disciplinary proceedings or suspend him, it was blocked upstairs. Now he’s found his place.’
With Ilona out of the room, the atmosphere had eased. Balthazar sipped his coffee. ‘But we are the murder squad. The dead man in Republic Square should be our case.’ The drink was tepid and slightly bitter, as coffee had been served in government offices for decades. He put the cup down. ‘And anyway, what is the Gendarmerie’s interest?’
‘Tens of thousands of people, economic migrants, refugees, terrorists, who knows what, are pouring through our borders. Then one turns up dead near Keleti Station. Of course the Gendarmerie are interested. They need something to do. To justify their existence. Their equipment. Their budget.’ Takacs looked into the distance. ‘What we could do with that—’
Balthazar sat upright, alert now. ‘He was a migrant? How do you know?’
‘I don’t, not for sure. He was found near Keleti, is one thing. But why else would the Gendarmerie be interested? They are taking over every case with any kind of international connection.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you want this?’
‘Of course. And I really don’t want to be told what to do by Attila Ungar and his thugs. If the Gendarmes take the case, in six months’ time we will both be out of a job. There won’t be a murder squad. It will be disbanded and absorbed. There probably won’t be a police force, in Budapest or anywhere else. Just the Gendarmerie. And we will both be applying to security companies for work.’
‘Maybe. Meanwhile, there’s something you need to see.’ Takacs beckoned Balthazar to come around and stand by his chair. He pressed the space bar on his keyboard and his computer monitor switched on. The browser window showed 555.hu, Hungary’s best investigative website.
‘Take a look at this,’ said Takacs. ‘It was posted twenty minutes ago.’
TRAFFICKERS DISGUISE MIGRANTS AS GYPSIES TO EVADE BORDER CHECKS
Human traffickers are disguising refugees and migrants as Gypsies so they can easily pass Hungarian border checks and travel on to the west. The traffickers are working with Gypsy clan leaders, who loan the traffickers genuine identity cards and passports belonging to Roma men, women and children, as well as traditional Gypsy clothes, in exchange for a part of the fee the traffickers receive. The identity papers and clothes are returned once the migrants pass into Austria so they may be used again.
Many refugees, especially from the Middle East, have darker complexions and so can pass as Gypsies. The people-smugglers dress the women and girls in brightly coloured skirts and headscarves. The men are clothed in worn second-hand jackets and trousers. They are told not to speak in their native language while crossing the border. Some are even loaned musical instruments and carry violins and accordions to bolster their false identities.
Border guards at Hegyeshalom and other crossings to Austria have been ordered to be on alert for migrants and refugees. However EU nationals can still travel freely back and forth. As Hungary and Austria are both part of the Schengen zone there are no border checks, and cars with Austrian, Hungarian or Romanian number plates are usually not stopped.
The people-smugglers operate freely in the side streets and parks around Keleti Station, which has now become the epicentre of Europe’s refugee crisis. Yesterday, despite the large police presence at the station, which is now closed to international trains, the people-smugglers were operating openly and accepting payment in either dollars, euros or Kuwaiti dinars. Two well-known Roma figures in Budapest’s underworld, both with connections to organised crime, appeared to be operating out of a café near the station.
A western diplomatic source told 555.hu: This is an organised network based in Vienna and Budapest, with links to the Middle East. The ringleaders are making vast profits from this trade in human misery. We have repeatedly requested that the Austrian and Hungarian authorities take action, but it seems nothing has been done.’
The rest of the article detailed how Eniko had asked three refugees camped out at Keleti to speak to the people-smugglers, then report back to her. They had all been quoted a price of 2,000 euros per person to get to Vienna, and promised a refund if they were turned back.
Balthazar read to the end. ‘Great detail. She’s a very good reporter.’
Takacs gave Balthazar a wry look. ‘Isn’t she? I liked Eniko. Are you still in touch?’
Balthazar shook his head, ignored the emotions that the sight of her name still stirred. ‘Not directly. We have mutual friends.’
Takacs continued talking, ‘Still, this must be the first time anyone has paid money to pretend to be a Gypsy. It’s usually the other way around.’ Alarm suddenly flitted across his face. ‘Can I say that?’
Takacs had been Balthazar’s patron for the last few years, had fought for him in inter-departmental battles, pushed for his promotion, stood by him every time. But Balthazar also accepted that despite his best efforts, and four days on a diversity-training course in London run by the Metropolitan Police, Sandor Takacs was a man of a certain age, who had lived his whole life in a very politically incorrect society, one never more so than where Gypsies were concerned.
Takacs was nudging sixty, could retire whenever he wanted. He had grown up in a village near the Serbian border, where smuggling was a way of life. He might easily have become a criminal himself, but a sharp-eyed Communist Party official had spotted his intelligence and sent him to Budapest to study. Balthazar had worked for him for five years, knew his moods and foibles, his weaknesses and his strengths. A display of photographs on the wall showed Takacs receiving a medal or award from every Hungarian prime minister since the collapse of Communism in 1990. Pal Palkovics, the current prime minister, grinned at the camera, his arm around Takacs’s shoulder.
Another array pictured Takacs at various seminars and international meetings with senior police officers, politicians and dignitaries. Next to that were framed certificates from courses Takacs had completed at the New York Police Department, the FBI and the London Metropolitan Police. But Takacs’s greatest ability was born in four decades of police work reading the signs and portents that heralded a change of empire, government, ruling party, even ideology. Like the archetypal Hungarian, Takacs could enter a revolving door behind someone and still come out in front.
Balthazar laughed. ‘Yes, boss. You can say that. There’s a police station at Keleti. Why don’t they just arrest these guys?’
‘Is that a serious question, Detective Kovacs?’
Balthazar took another sip of coffee. The bitter sludge was really undrinkable. He put the cup down. ‘No, boss. Not at 2,000 euros per person. What’s their cut?’
‘The usual. About fifteen per cent.’ Takacs paused, thinking how to frame his next thought. ‘Tazi, she writes about Gypsy clan leaders. Help me out here. Could they include...’
‘My brother Gaspar? Maybe. He brings in some of his girls from the Balkans. He knows the traffickers. He knows the routes, who to pay off and where.’
Takacs picked up the packet of cigarettes, extracted one and twirled it between his fingers. ‘Do you think he is involved?’
‘In murdering migrants? No. But trafficking, probably.’
‘Would he help?’
‘Maybe. But you know how it works with pimps. Nothing is free. The vice squad are all over his patches, because he won’t pay them enough.’
‘Go and see Gaspar. If he is involved in the death of this man, he gets no favours. And if he is not and he knows something, we can think about trading. I’ll have a word with the vice squad. Speaking of family, how’s Alex? How old is he now?’
‘Twelve. Thirteen, next month. It’s my turn with him this weekend. He’s coming over tomorrow afternoon and staying the night.’ Balthazar picked up his telephone, called up a photograph and passed it to Takacs. The screen showed a skinny, brown-haired, green-eyed boy with a gap-toothed smile.
‘Good-looking lad. Bring him in here to visit us. Maybe he’ll also be a cop when he grows up.’ He paused, ‘If there still are any cops then...’ He handed the telephone back to Balthazar. ‘Sarah?’
‘The divorce is finalised. I get him one day every other weekend and for two hours one evening a week. She made me surrender three weekday visits for the overnighter this weekend.’
‘I don’t know why these women behave like this. How can it be good for a boy not to have a father around?’
Balthazar gave a wry smile. ‘Maybe Sarah thinks two mothers are enough.’
‘Perhaps it’s her...’ Takacs looked at the ceiling for a moment, searching for the right word. ‘... partner. Turning her against you.’
‘I don’t think so. I get on fine with Amanda. Just not with Sarah. She’s always so angry with me. She’s still playing hardball, even though she left me. And that was almost three years ago.’
‘There’s no logic in these situations. Maybe you make her feel guilty, so she gets angry and she’s taking it out on you. But watch yourself with Sarah. She’s built a very good roof.’
Roof was criminal slang for protection. ‘Who?’
‘The American ambassador. Sarah had dinner there twice in the last month. It seems the ambassador went to college with Sarah’s mother. They are still close friends. There’s a $100 million Anglo-American investment on the table, for security equipment, staff and training for the new border fences. If the ambassador makes a request to the PM’s office for help dealing with a troublesome police officer harassing an American citizen, it will be heeded. Especially after you had to be officially—’
‘Yes,’ said Balthazar, cutting Takacs off. ‘So where are we? Officially?’
Takacs shrugged, slid the evidence bag across the desk. ‘Expect an email from me informing you that the events at Republic Square are now a matter of national security and under the jurisdiction of the Gendarmerie. The email will be an official record of my instructions not to pursue it any further. Otherwise, what you do in your own time is your own affair.’
Balthazar smiled, placed the evidence bag in his shirt pocket. ‘Meaning?’
Takacs’s voice was deadpan but his eyes glimmered. ‘No calls to or from this office, or my home or mobile numbers, no use of police email or databases, no requests to any colleagues, either verbal, on paper or by email. And no use of police communications, internet or telephone facilities. Find an internet café. And not the one nearest your house. You are on your own. Off the books. Vilagos?’
‘Vilagos.’
Takacs opened a drawer in his desk, tossed an ancient Nokia at Balthazar. ‘Catch.’